My hands are red,
every bend and grasp a little sore,
and there’s a spade-shaped bruise on my back
from my son tackling me in the garden
where I was raking
and hip-swinging ridiculously
to the beat of American Patrol in my head.
(What can I say? I dig those swing classics!)
It feels a little like victory
and a little like aggression
forming this first patch.
We’re going to grow pumpkins!
I can only hope they’re large and delicious.
Either way, I’ll have callouses.